


Forbidden Fruit

by maddierose



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddierose/pseuds/maddierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every death you see haunts you. It plagues your dreams. You are never safe from what you've done in that arena, and to be honest, I don't think you should be. It would be way too easy to forget the people you've killed, the lives you've destroyed. I was a Career, and some of the things I did during those Games were the actions of a monster." Gloss/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Asking Price

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first work on here and I'm still not really sure what I'm doing...but hopefully you lovely people can put me on the right track! I hope you enjoy this story.

**Gloss's POV**

I won the 68th Hunger Games when I was sixteen. There, I said it. Normally that's the sort of thing that merits handshakes and pats on the back. It's like…being a Victor should be a celebration or something. But I've been a Victor for six years now, and I'm telling you, it doesn't get any easier. Sure, there's the fame, that everyone in Panem knows your face. But it's an empty fame considering that you had to give up your humanity to achieve it.

I didn't volunteer because I wanted the fame and glory. Well, actually, that's a lie. I wanted it, but that wasn't the main reason. The main reason was because of Cashmere. Three years older than me, she'd won the 67th Hunger Games the year before. That was back when I was naïve and I thought the Victors were treated like superstars. And they are…most of the time. But there are always things you have to do to stay like that, prices you have to pay. When I found out the price Cashmere was paying, I didn't want her to be alone anymore.

It was scary to see how much my sister had changed, when she returned from the 67th Hunger Games. Cashmere had been confident to the point of near arrogance, but after all that she had experienced she seemed…well, no less confident really, but she was withdrawn. Introverted. She wasn't the same sister I'd grown up with. That scared me, the thought that the real Cashmere died in the arena along with the other twenty-three tributes.

She was horrified when I volunteered. She knew that she would have to mentor me and for some time, all she could do was berate me for how stupid I had been. I didn't care though. I was filled with a steely determination: I would win the 68th Hunger Games, no matter what. My district partner was a girl a year younger than me, Honey. I still remember watching District 6 cut her open in the final eight.

It's the sort of thing you don't forget. Every death you see haunts you. It plagues your dreams. You are never safe from what you've done in that arena, and to be honest, I don't think you should be. It would be way too easy to forget the people you've killed, the lives you've destroyed. I don't see myself as a human anymore. I was a Career, and some of the things I did during those Games were the actions of a monster.

The 69th Hunger Games were no better. It was like I was reliving my own Games, watching as tributes died once again. Thank God I had Cashmere or I don't think I would have survived. It's been like that these past few years – mentoring tributes, basically shaping them up and them sending them in to their deaths. Sometimes, they're kids you vaguely know. It doesn't make it any better or worse seeing them die if you know them. After a while, you just become numb to the whole thing, because feeling hurts too much.

Cashmere told me once that I should never fall in love. I sneered at that. How could a Victor ever fall in love, when they had already lost so much? The prospect was almost amusing. For some time I wondered why she was warning me about this. Cashmere herself had long ago lost the ability to love when she had been forced to serve herself to greedy Capitol men. The only person she loved anymore was me.

There would be a day when I would remember Cashmere's words, when I would think on them carefully. Love…it makes people weak. It makes them do stupid things. The prospect of it made me sick. That was before everything changed.

* * *

"Gloss! Get up."

I sit bolt upright at my sister's sharp voice, tossing around to free myself from the prison of my cotton sheets. That happens sometimes, when my nightmares are extreme. I toss and turn and tie myself into knots in the bedclothes. Once I've unwound myself from the bedclothes, I stagger to my feet, raking a hand through my blond hair.

Cashmere is leaning in the doorframe watching me. By the wry look about her face and the sympathetic light in her eyes, she knows that last night was especially difficult for me. Both of us know what today is, what it means. The nightmares of the past few years are about to repeat themselves.

"Reaping day." Cashmere voices what I already knew. "We need to be down in the square in half an hour. Apparently they've loaded a new escort on us."

I snort. Escorts…why do we really need them? They're just stuck-up Capitolians who are perhaps curious about the districts, who haven't had to work a hard job a day in their lives. They're beyond contempt. I've never liked or trusted them. Cashmere's the one who's always nice to them. Most of the rest of the Victors can't be bothered putting in the effort.

The smell of eggs and bacon prompts me to go downstairs. Cashmere never used to cook before the Games, but as Victors who don't have to work, sometimes we need to have something to stop us from going completely crazy. Some of the other district's Victors are just…weird. We talk to them a bit, although most of the time we keep to ourselves. Still, no harm in getting friendly with the other Career Victors, especially when they might unintentionally give away tactics.

Cashmere saunters downstairs in a deep blue dress that brings out her eyes. She's always been beautiful, my sister. She's the sort of girl that the guys used to go after, only now they're intimidated by her fame as a Victor. If I was older than her, I could be the sort of overprotective brother who'd beat them away with a stick.

I wonder how long this year's tributes will last. In the 73rd Hunger Games last year, the girl got herself decapitated in the bloodbath, and the boy died of the cold during the night only a few days later. Needless to say, the Games weren't very eventful for District 1, but I feel like it's better when it's over quickly. It's like ripping off a bandaid rather than working it off slowly.

District 1 has a big pool of Victors, a lot like other Career districts such as District 2. The difference is that while I hear District 2 selects Victors from their variety, District 1 has a policy of always sending their latest two Victors to be the mentors for the tributes. It shouldn't really be surprising that Cashmere and I are the latest two. It's why I'm rather selfishly hoping that someday soon, another District 1 tribute will win, so at least Cashmere can have some breathing space.

"Gloss?" Cashmere glances across at me and I realize that, once again, I've been caught up in my train of thought. My sister's been growing increasingly worried about the fact that I just seem to zone out sometimes. She says it's like I'm living on another planet now. Sometimes I wish I was.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I mutter, getting up and putting my plate in the sink before trudging upstairs. I check the clock. Twenty minutes…twenty minutes to prepare for an event that will ruin the lives of two families in District 1 irrevocably.

* * *

**Storm's POV**

The train from the Capitol to District 1 only takes a couple of hours, but trust me to catch the late one in. As the train pulls into the station, I start making some frantic last-minute checks in the mirror. The last thing this district needs is another colourful, super-bubbly escort who just reminds them of the Capitol. That's why I had all the fire-engine red rinsed from my naturally mouse-brown hair, took out the green contacts I'd been wearing so my eyes were their normal hazel.

I want District 1 to see me as another person, someone they can relate to. Not that it's really going to happen. They hate us, the people from the district. I can see why. I mean, I've never done anything to the people of District 1 personally, but they're going to treat me with contempt. It's just the way things go.

"Storm!" There's an insistent hammering on my door. I groan and pop another aspirin. I'm really going to need it at the rate things are going. The press team who came with me are annoying the crap out of me. "We've reached the station, get your stuff."

Which means I'm up at the podium in fifteen minutes. Shit. I gather my things as fast as I can, smoothing down my black pencil skirt. First up is meeting the Victors, which should be interesting. I'm young for this job, so I'm told. Freshly turned twenty and I've been thrown into the deep end. Before I was just another face in the media gig, then the former escort for District 1 retirees and bam, I'm right in the thick of it.

I clack onto the platform in three-inch black heels, still valiantly attempting to adjust my skirt. I went for the businesswoman look, I think to try and disguise how young I am. I gnaw at my lip, before stopping when I realize I'm only going to get red lipstick on my teeth by doing it. The rest of the press team file off the train, assembling cameras and microphones as they go.

The Mayor of District 1 greets me enthusiastically. He's a puffed-up round ball of a man who constantly wipes his sweaty hands on his suit pants. I get the feeling that he doesn't like me, although he doesn't even know me yet. It's all just a show, a small segment of the big show we put on the Capitol: the Hunger Games. He keeps calling me Sky instead of Storm, but I let it slide.

"This way, Sky." The Mayor leads me into the Justice Building to meet the Victors I'm going to be working with. The place is full of appetizers and small glasses of wine red as blood. I'm immediately nervous when I notice the Victors. Both of them are so…okay, it sounds weird, but  _beautiful._  They're quite clearly brother and sister.

The sister is the older one. She offers me a saccharine smile, but I can see that it doesn't reach her eyes. Hair the colour of bright gold reaches her waist and her eyes are a deep sapphire blue. I'm immediately jealous of her beauty. She's perhaps in her mid-twenties, and she walks over to me and extends a hand.

"You must be the new escort. I'm Cashmere Delucan."

I shake her hand firmly. "Storm Asterbury."

The young man ignores me. He's perhaps only a little older than me, with striking good looks like his sister. Unlike Cashmere, however, there's a scowl across his face, and I can see the disdain in his eyes when he looks at me. He catches me looking and I immediately drop my gaze, flushing. He already hates me.

"That's my brother, Gloss," Cashmere heaves a sigh. "You'll have to excuse him. He's not exactly very social."

I remember Cashmere and Gloss's Games. Cashmere was lethal, although at first underestimated because of her beauty. She proved that she was capable of killing without remorse. Gloss displayed a similar ruthlessness during his Games, and although they seemed harmless enough now, I knew better than to underestimate them.

Ever since I'd been a little girl, I'd hated the Games. Not because I'd thought them wrong, not then. I had always been weak-stomached, and the sight of blood and death upset me. I would often have nightmares even though the horrors of the Games were not my burdens to bear. I was just a little Capitol girl. It was the districts who were supposed to suffer, not me.

The Mayor ushers us outside into the square before I've even had the chance to eye off the appetizers. Gloss and Cashmere saunter across to take their allocated seats, but as the escort, it's my job to go up the microphone and officially get the reaping started. They'll all hate me, all the teenagers of age in District 1. It's because I'm the one picking their names out, like some sort of god choosing who lives and who dies.

I swallow and switch the microphone on, watching as the last kids file into their respective sections. I pity them. I've never known the fear of having to stand there, scared for my life, scared for someone I know and care about. I've always been sheltered, I know that. So why should it be me to pick out who's sentenced to the Hunger Games?

"Welcome." My voice is loud and confident, although inside I'm shrivelling up at the thought of addressing so many people – but this isn't about me and my insecurities. Two kids are going to  _die_  from this district, and already I'm focusing on my own fears. I'm selfish. Most Capitolians are. "My name's Storm Asterbury, and I'm the new escort for District 1."

I'm met with silence. I suppose it's better having a Career district rather than one of the lower ones. The kids here are actually enthusiastic about the Hunger Games. It's about honour and glory for them. How little they know. I immediately distance myself. I don't know any of these kids. I suppose that's another aspect of my weak heart coming through. Good thing I was never in a district. I never would have made it as a tribute.

They listen in boredom, fidgeting as I push through the history of Panem, the Dark Days, how the Hunger Games came about. They don't want to hear about it, and I don't blame them. No one wants to be reminded of their failure. Afterwards, I paste a plastic smile across my features as I announce the drawing of tributes. Of course, I've been informed that in District 1, I won't have to actually draw names. There are volunteers left, right and centre. It sends shivers down my spine to know how eager some of these kids are.

"I volunteer." It's a girl of around seventeen, with silvery blonde hair. She steps out, causing a few other girls to don disappointed expressions. She tosses back her hair as she approaches the stage, and I can see that this girl has a bright confidence to her. She'll need more than confidence, though. "I'm Glimmer."

I haven't even opened my mouth to announce the boy tribute when a brown-haired boy from the eighteen-year-old section moves forward. He's tall, easily over six feet, and like the girl, has a cocky smirk across his face. That's the problem with Career districts, that's their downfall, they're too full of themselves to see anyone else as a viable threat.

"Marvel," the boy says.

I force a smile and turn back to the microphone. "District 1, I give you your tributes!"

As applause thunders through the square, I turn and glance towards the Victors. Perhaps they'll be impressed by Marvel and Glimmer, perhaps they won't really care. But all I see is the hatred in Gloss's eyes…and it's directed at me.


	2. Ghost Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who left kudos, it's much appreciated. On with the show!

Chapter Two: Ghost Train

Gloss’s POV

I don’t like this year’s escort. In fact, I like her even less than last year’s escort. Most of them are pretty open about what they are, looking down their noses like the snotty Capitolians they are. This one’s different. She’s young for starters, younger than me. Maybe twenty. Her attitude is what annoys me the most though. Her name’s Storm or something stupid like that, and she acts as though she’s a wide-eyed innocent, like she doesn’t know what the Hunger Games are.

The tributes this year are arrogant, way too sure of themselves. I guess I can’t exactly blame them – wasn’t I just the same, not that long ago? I sit in a chair and swill my glass of wine, watching as Marvel attempts to flirt with a clearly uninterested Glimmer. Cashmere is over making herself a cocktail. Storm is sitting stiffly in her chair, like the proper young Capitolian she was raised to be, no doubt. She takes small, polite sips of her wine and avoids eye contact.

“So, Sky...” I know it’s not really her name, but I also know that it irritates her. It would be amusing, I suppose, to get under her skin. After all, she’s not a danger like another Victor. What could little miss Storm Asterbury actually do if I got on her nerves?

She glances up from her glass. “Storm.”

“Storm.” My smile’s mocking, probably even to her eyes. “Right. What is it exactly that you do in the Capitol? Of course, some of the year you’re occupied with the Hunger Games, but what about otherwise?”

“I...” She looks puzzled, as though she’s not quite sure to respond to such a direct question. Stupid Capitolians, she’s probably used to fancy wordplay and dancing around the topic. “Visit my mother when I can, I suppose. Well...sometimes. We...we don’t get along.”

It seems strange to think that Capitolians actually have families, to think of them as anything but monsters. I glance across at Storm. She’s trying hard to appeal to us, her hair a clearly natural mouse-brown and her eyes a fairly normal hazel. I think I’d prefer crazy colours and absurd behaviour to this clean-cut, professional-looking little try-hard.

“Why are you telling me about your family?” I lean back in my chair, raising my eyebrows. “Do you actually think I care about them? I asked what you do, not about your mother.”

She blinks, not exactly hurt but a little surprised at my blunt response. Please, like I care. What is Storm going to do, cry if I hurt her feelings? Why does she even have the right to be offended? She’s the one who’s pretending to be something she’s not. If she’s from the Capitol, she might damn well act like it.

“Gloss, stop it,” Cashmere snaps, sinking into a chair across from me with an electric pink cocktail, which she takes a sip of, before turning her attention upon Storm. “I apologize for my brother. He’s not exactly the friendliest of people.”

“Whatever,” I reply, my mood turning sour. Of course, that’s just Cashmere. She plays polite with the Capitolians, which is why she never has problems with any of them. I suppose it’s probably stuck with her because of having to play the falsely sweet card with the men she has to sleep with. It’s disgusting. I can’t help but feel like Cashmere is taking Storm’s side.

I glance across at the tributes. They’re not allowed to drink, so instead they seem pretty bored with watching everything going on around them. I get up off the chair I’m sitting in and move so I’m leaning against the table next to them. That gets their attention. Both teenagers fall silent, watching me warily.

“What?” I demand of them, a little annoyed. Marvel remains silent, but continues to watch me. Glimmer is bolder, tilting her head to the side as she watches me. Her eyes are a bright green that shine brightly as she observes me.

“How did you win your Games?”

She seems to be a louder, more outspoken tribute than her district partner. Marvel continues to watch avidly, but it would seem that Glimmer’s the mouthpiece. Out of the two of them, my bet’s on her lasting a shorter amount of time than Marvel. It’s the quiet ones you really have to watch out for.

“You want to know how I won?” I sit back down in my chair, aware that the teenagers’ eyes remain focused entirely on me. 

Cashmere heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes. Anyone would think she’s disinterested, but I know better. She doesn’t want to relive my Games again. She was already on edge enough during the 68th Hunger Games, and she doesn’t like being reminded of all the worry she was put through. I decide that instead of telling these kids how I won, it might actually be more useful telling them how they can win.

“How I won doesn’t matter now.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I slit the throat of the girl from District 6, but this was years ago.”

“Please.” There are tears spilling down the girl’s face as I press my dagger to her throat. “Please, don’t kill me.”

She’s the one who practically rent Honey in two. It’s not the sort of thing you forget easily, watching your district partner’s insides splatter onto the ground. It was messy and it was horrible. It wasn’t how I managed death would be. There was no glory in it, no triumph, not even for District 6.

It’s just the two of us left now. Surely she doesn’t expect mercy? I wind a hand into her hair and wrench her head back, so that I’m the last thing she sees in the world when I slash her throat. District 6 chokes on her own blood and I let go, staggering back as her cannon goes off.

I’ve done it, I’ve won...

“Gloss?” It’s Cashmere, sounding concerned. I snap back into reality and glance across at her. Glimmer whispers something to Marvel, causing him to snicker. These kids have no idea what they’ve volunteered for, no idea of the horrors they’re going to witness. That is, if they live that long.

“Yeah, what?” I don’t like it when she catches me in one of my zoning-out moments. It’s almost like her seeing a weakness, a wound that’s buried deep inside me, still bleeding after six years. I abruptly turn my attention back to Marvel and Glimmer. “You two. You want to win the Hunger Games? The first thing is that you can’t trust anyone, not the other Careers, not even each other.”

“Got it.” Marvel nods, seeming a bit more confident in himself now.

“You have to kill anyone who stands against you, no matter how much they beg you otherwise,” I say, my tone growing firm. This is what I’m passionate about. I don’t have a choice – once you’ve been involved in the Games, it’s something that stays with you for life. You want to see others survive as you did. You get sick of watching kids die year after year, and for what? What cause? Entertainment?

Marvel and Glimmer nod fiercely, but I was once like them. I thought it would be easy to kill, and in essence it is. You drive a dagger through someone’s heart, cut their throat. That’s the easy part. The harder part is getting their blood off your hands and trying to convince yourself you’re still human, but at the same time attempting to push what you’ve done to the back of your mind.

The Capitolian girl is staring across at me with wide hazel eyes, and I flash her a bitterly victorious smile. Perhaps she doesn’t like hearing of the brutality, the harsh truth. That’s just too bad. The Capitol has their games, we don’t like to play. Victors don’t hide the truth, only the pain. Once you know what it’s like to be a murderer, that’s the only time you can talk about killing with any sincerity.

 

Storm’s POV

We’re fast approaching the Capitol station. It only takes a matter of hours from District 1, whereas from places such as District 12, I’ve heard it can take days. I press my hand against the cold glass, glad that I’m going to be home, not in some lonely little place where everyone despises me and pretends they can’t get my name right. It’s late in the afternoon already, but it’s been a long day catching trains and I can’t help but feel weary.

A door hisses close and I whirl around. I don’t get along with the four people I am going to be stuck with until the end of the 74th Hunger Games. Cashmere is alright, perhaps the only one who is actually polite to me, even if her civilities are forced. The tribute girl, Glimmer I think her name is, just flounces around and looks down her nose at me. Marvel ignores me completely, as if I don’t exist. The worst is definitely Gloss and how hostile he is towards me, which is why my heart sinks when I realize that it’s him.

“What’s the matter?” He smirks when he notes my discomfort. “Do I frighten you?”

It would be a lie to say no. He speaks about death so casually, and now I think about it, I do remember some of his Games. I would have been around fourteen at the time, and I think I can still remember some of the more gruesome parts. I lick my lips and try and stand straight, although my legs are tired and the heels are making my feet wobble.

“Everyone gets frightened sometimes. You were frightened when you watched your district partner die.”

It was the wrong thing to say, I know this even as the words leave my mouth, but it’s too late to take it back. My weariness means that my diplomacy is wearing very thin indeed, and I watch as Gloss’s blue eyes flare with rage. He snarls like a furious animal, grabbing me by the shoulders and slamming me into the wall. He’s stronger, although I expected that. My head bounces against the steel, making me wince in pain.

“Don’t you ever mention her,” he hisses at me. His fingers dig painfully into my arms and I bite down on my lip to restrain a cry. I regret my words and I wish I could take them back. Before I was frustrated by Gloss’s clear hatred, but now I have just made myself deserve every bit of it. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything.”

Gloss draws back just as quickly as he grabbed me. My feet give way and I slide down to the floor. He stares down at me, his jaw clenched and pure loathing glittering in his blue eyes. He thinks I’m pathetic, I can see it in his face. His lip curls in disgust, but before either of us can say anything, the door opens again and it’s Cashmere.

She glances at Gloss, his face contorted with unspeakable rage, and then at me, curled on the ground like a scared child. She must think me pathetic as well, but she heaves a sigh and walks over, taking my wrist and tugging me to my feet with more strength than I knew she possessed. I quickly go about taking off my heels, bringing me back to my true five foot five, a stark contrast to Gloss’s six foot two. 

Cashmere turns on her brother. “What were you thinking?”

“She brought up Honey,” Gloss spits, clenching his hands into fists.

“Are you completely stupid?!” Cashmere sounds angry, but I hardly think it’s got to do with the fact that Gloss was violent with me, but rather how that will reflect. “She’s our escort, Gloss. You can’t just throw her around like she’s some sort of ragdoll.”

He turns his hate-filled eyes on me, before glancing back at his sister. “I don’t care who she is.”

Cashmere turns to face me. I’m just standing across the room from them, gnawing at my lip despite the fact that I’ll get lipstick on my teeth. I’m gripping my heels in my hand like my life depends on it, like I could really defend myself with my three-inch stilettos. There’s an almost sympathetic expression on her face, and even I can’t tell whether it’s genuine or faked.

“Storm, could you please give us a few minutes?”

I nod mutely and walk out into the corridor, letting the door close behind me. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m actually shaking. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I never want to be the victim of Gloss’s rage again. That was truly terrifying.

It’s more like fifteen minutes rather than just a few. By the time Gloss and Cashmere are finished with what I assume was a quiet argument, the train is slowing down as we reach the platform. I reluctantly put my heels back on, silently reassuring myself that it’s just another half hour before we’re in the Training Centre.

Gloss stalks past me, but by the time he’s on the platform he’s distinctly more relaxed. I’m hoping that he’ll act like Marvel and perhaps ignore me when we reach the Training Centre. Anything’s better than having to having to deal with his volatile temper. I take my mind off him and instead watch Glimmer and Marvel. Both of them definitely aren’t crowd shy, waving to those who are cheering for them on the platform. I would think them courageous, until I remember that they don’t know what’s coming. They’ve seen it before, but they have yet to live it...and so do I.


	3. Nightmare We've Created

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) Thanks for all the kudos, it'd be great to hear what you think in comments!

**Chapter Three: Nightmare We’ve Created**

**Gloss’s POV**

I twirl the empty wine glass idly in my hand. By now, the Marvel and Glimmer are being all beautified in preparation for the chariots. Not that it would take much – both of them are good-looking kids. It might help them gain sponsors, but I don’t think it will make much of a difference if another tribute charges at them with a weapon. Finnick Odair is one example of a tribute that gained immense sponsor support – and managed to win.

Cashmere kept raising her wine glass to her lips, but the glass wasn’t emptying at all. Maybe it’s because the deep red liquid reminds her of blood. I immediately shake off the stupid notion. My sister isn’t that childish. I think the truth is that she’s worried. Not for the tributes now – this is probably the best part before the Games in the mind of the tribute, a chance to show off. She fears what is to come in this year’s Games, as I think all Victors do. None of us want to see our tributes die, but at the same time, we don’t want them to become monsters like us.

Storm stands by the window. She’s already finished two glasses of wine. The thin straps of her deep blue dress leave her arms exposed, so I can see the purple bruises beginning to form where I dug my fingers into her biceps. I feel a tiny sting of guilt, before I push it away. Storm brought it upon herself. She brought up Honey, and she must have known that it would hurt. All the Capitolians know how to do is hurt.

Outside, the colourful Capitol is alive with noise as yet another district pulls into the station. They don’t care about the deaths. Why should they? It’s not their kids that get their names pulled out. So they celebrate because their favourite live television event is going to be back on. God, I wish I could knock some sense into those air-filled heads of theirs. Someone needs to give them a good reality check.

“Gloss?”

Speaking of reality checks, it’s not until Cashmere says my name that I realise I’m holding my wine glass so tightly that in a minute it’ll begin to crack. Storm glances across and I see the fear in her eyes. She’s afraid of me losing my temper. Good, she should be. She has every right to be afraid.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Cashmere sighs heavily and gets to her feet. She’d always had an elegance, my sister. She had been the beauty of her Games, the pretty face that none had thought would have the capability to become a Victor. Storm glances over at her and I know that it’s time. The tributes will be down at the chariots by now and it’s our job to go down and wish them well, to wave to the people who all too soon will be cheering for their deaths. It’s not exactly an appealing prospect.

We head down to the Training Centre, with Storm trailing along behind as though she has no idea what to do. That annoys me for some reason. Most of the other escorts have been blathering on non-stop about what’s in store for the Games, what the Capitol thinks of everything. Storm remains silent though. I don’t like the silence. It means I never know what she’s thinking. She catches my hard stare and immediately takes to looking at the ground. I imagine how easy it would be to crush someone as weak as Storm in the Hunger Games.

“Don’t we look great,” Glimmer babbles, sauntering over to Cashmere and I and twirling in her costume. It’s a thing of sequins and feathers that’s supposed to represent the occupation of our district, but to me she just looks like a silly little girl playing dress-up. Marvel follows in a more solemn state. Perhaps it’s something to do with having to wear the colour pink.

I glance around at the other tributes. The boy from District 2 – his name begins with a C if I remember correctly – glares sullenly around at the rest of them, for some reason lingering on the pair from District 12...and what a non-descript pair they are. Both are dressed in black, a brunette girl and a blond boy. When I turn my attention back on our tributes, Cashmere is already in the middle of giving the two teenagers a firm talking to. Storm shifts her feet awkwardly and I frown.

“Why are you even an escort?” I demand brusquely of her, causing her head to snap up. “It’s not like you’re doing much to help. Do you even the schedule? When Glimmer and Marvel return, they’re going to want to know what to expect.”

Some part of me wishes that she would argue back, all the better a reason for me to be angry at her. Instead Storm reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small mobile device. She taps a few things and hesitantly draws closer, showing me something with small writing. I’m too uninterested to bother reading.

“I have the schedule,” she replies simply, before she stows the device. She is clearly trying hard not to anger me. “The chariots are not my arena, though.”

“Not your arena.” I snort in disdain. “You’re hilarious.”

Storm blinks, and I realise that instead of what I thought had been an intended pun, it had been an innocent mistake. Honestly, what was this naive little girl even doing here? She looked delicate, like porcelain, like the slightest thing could shatter her. I sigh heavily and turn my back on her. She’s not even worth it me thinking about her.

* * *

 

Dinner is fraught with tension. Glimmer is looking sour as she slices her carrots into neat rectangles. Marvel is scowling. I throw Cashmere a glance across the table, and see only resignation in her eyes. We both know why our tributes are acting like this. District 12’s costumes burst into flames during the chariots, completely upstaging everyone else. Glimmer and Marvel were completely unimpressed. Glimmer had stomped her feet and clenched her small hands into fists, although she had desisted when she came to her senses and realised there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“Tomorrow you begin training.”

My head jerked up in actual surprise that Storm had spoken. She was studying the two tributes carefully, both of whom still bore sullen expressions. Despite the negativity she was met with, she trundled on.

“You’d be best to learn some survival skills as well as how to use weapons...”

“Hang on,” I interrupted, giving her a hard look, “You’re the escort. You’re not supposed to be telling them what stations they’re going to go to. You just tell the schedule and that’s it, got it?”

For a moment, just a brief moment, Storm’s eyes flare and I want her to challenge me, to argue. It’s been so long since anyone actually stood up against me, but true to her spineless nature, she nodded mutely and backed down. She picks at her potatoes, smothered in gravy, and I’m left disgusted at her weakness once more.

* * *

 

**Storm’s POV**

“AN ELEVEN?” Gloss throws another wine glass. It shatters into thousands of tiny glass fragments and I can’t help but flinch. “HOW THE HELL DID A GIRL FROM DISTRICT 12 MANAGE TO SCORE THAT HIGH?”

Cashmere watches him, her face a stoic mask. I am only glad that Glimmer and Marvel aren’t here to see this latest outburst. Gloss whirls on us, panting heavily. He’s a madman. I knew that before, but I had never seen him lose his temper like he just did. I’m shaking in my seat, because I’m afraid. Shouldn’t I be? This man has no bounds. His anger is limitless.

“We don’t know, Gloss.” Cashmere speaks calmly. I hope that she can manage to make him put a lid on his temper. Someone has to talk sense to him and it seems that only his sister can take up that role. She makes to reach out to him, but Gloss just angrily kicks the shards of glass that he’s left in a transparent jigsaw across the carpet, before stomping out. I glance at Cashmere, biting my lip, but she shakes her head.

“Sometimes it’s just best to leave him,” Cashmere says, sighing heavily. She rakes a hand through her long blonde hair and I pity her. She leans down and starts scooping up the glass shards, and I rush to help. This is obviously not new to her. Gloss destroys everything around him and it’s always up to Cashmere to pick up the pieces.

“Is he often like that?” I inquire, and then scold myself for sounding like a curious child. Cashmere probably doesn’t want to talk about Gloss right now. She would want to forget his outburst, but I keep mucking things up.

“He gets angry,” Cashmere admits, picking up the glass shards and walking over to dump them in the bin. “But not usually that angry.”

Everything she does is elegant, flawless. It’s no wonder she became a Victor, with such natural beauty and grace. Not to mention that she is intelligent. But then I see the pain in Cashmere’s blue eyes, and I realise that while not crazy on a Gloss level, everyone has their scars and faults. Just because they aren’t apparent on the surface doesn’t mean that they aren’t there.

“It must be hard,” I murmur softly.

Cashmere nods, swallowing a lump in her throat. “It is. The Games...they took my baby brother away from me. He never came back. The Gloss you see now is just a shadow of who he once was. I would give anything, even my own life, to take that back. To have him as he was before.”

I’m struck by her selflessness, and her decision to relate something so deep and painful to me. Gloss hates me, views me as yet another Capitolian that he must condemn, but Cashmere is more accepting. At first it was just pure tactfulness, but now I’m starting to think that she wants to open up. She wants to have a friend and she’s looking to me to be that person. I bite my lip and touch her arm, but she brushes my hand off.

“Is there a way for him to stop hating?” I ask almost desperately. “I want to prove to him that I’m capable of understanding if he’ll let me, but...”

Cashmere is shaking her head. “Gloss doesn’t trust easily, Storm. He’s paranoid and he’s out of control. I’m probably the only person now who understands the burden he bears. The only one who can even try to calm him down. If you want him to trust you, you have to at first keep your distance.”

I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve always been a curious person and the more I see of Gloss, the more I should want to run away – but I don’t. I want to find out more. I want to see why he’s like this, I want to see the raw hatred and anger, even if it’s directed at me. It only makes me realise how heartbreakingly human these Victors are, how much pain they have been through...and whose fault it is.

I push myself to my feet and walk down the corridor. My honest intention is to go to bed...until I hear the sound of running water and see that Gloss’s door is ajar. My curiosity gets the better of me and I peer in. Gloss is leaning over the sink, his hands fisted in his blond hair. There’s blood in the sink and I note with only a slight heat in my cheeks that he’s taken his shirt off. I go to take a step back, but it’s already too late. Gloss has seen me.

“You.” He scowls across at me. “What do you want?”

I tentatively step through the doorway. “You’re bleeding.”

“You think?” Gloss retaliates sarcastically. Even in the dim light of his private bathroom, I can see that he’s still well-built. My eyes rake over his toned chest and I can’t help but flush like a silly little girl. His lip curls in contempt when he sees this. “Checking me out, are you?”

“No,” I lie. I have no interest in Gloss in that manner at all, but I am not going to deny that he is a good-looking man. I glance down at his hands, which have lots of wicked cuts, many of them still bleeding. “You should have them checked in case there’s still glass in them.”

“I don’t care,” Gloss snaps, his blue eyes cold, “Get out of my room.”


End file.
